


What Little Mirth

by midnightblack07



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Sexual Content, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:24:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightblack07/pseuds/midnightblack07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There is much to be said between the two of them, this he knows, but words have never favoured him and they seem to favour her less now than they ever have before..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Little Mirth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thefairfleming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/gifts).



> **A/N:** Spoilers through AFFC. Also, I hold to a certain, POTENTIALLY SPOILERY theory regarding Jon's lineage (that Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen were his parents) that would make him Sansa's cousin by blood here, and hence the incest a little less ~inappropriate, depending on where you're from I suppose lol.

+

 

_And oh poor atlas,  
The world's a beast of a burden,  
You've been holding on a long time;  
And all this longing,  
And the ships are left to rust,  
That's what the water gave us_  
 _What the Water Gave Me-_ Florence and the Machine

 

+

 

When he finds her at the Vale, hair as changed as her name, the fact that she is no longer his sister (that she never has been, really) is the farthest thing from his mind. 

There is nothing but relief and bitter-sweet mirth when she flies into his arms and clutches him in a way that is foreign to the both of them. 

"Oh Jon, is it really you?" She whispers, so tentative--so clearly uncertain that there is any hope to be gotten from this place and these times, and it tugs at a place he'd long since considered he could no longer afford to entertain. 

"It is," he assures her, and though the words sound rather lame even to his own ears, he can see her eyes well with tears before she's burying her head in his chest again, carving a place for it (for _her_ ) that can never again be severed.

This he vows (he ignores the red roots of her hair, ignores the voice that tells him he still knows nothing).

 

+

 

There is much to be said between the two of them, this he knows, but words have never favoured him and they seem to favour her less now than they ever have before (he can still remember a girl who knew all the right ones, a girl who could hit all the right notes).

"It won't be the same," he pauses, unsure of how to broach the topic of their ruined home without alarming her. "But, it isn't beyond repair, there are more than enough who are willing to see Winterfell restored."  


She nods, offers him a small smile that does little to hide that there is little, if any, mirth to be found here.  


"Did they really burn the castle?" She whispers, and he almost misses it over the creaking of the carriage and the thudding of the horses' hooves.  


"Yes," he confirms, loathing his simplicity.  


Robb would have known what to say to her, what to _do_ with her. There would have been words of assured encouragement and frequent embraces, a familiarity that she could never boast to having ever had with a bastard half-brother (a bastard _cousin_ now, he thinks).  


Instead, he is here and there is nothing but silence between them and the roots of her auburn hair visible to him even from the back of her turned head.

 

+

 

They stop halfway at a seemingly comfortable road-side inn, one they can only pray will prove safe (for these times have yet to do so).  


They dine together, the two of them and the men of their party, and it proves to be a surprisingly pleasant affair, the presence of such copious amounts of wine and music brightening their spirits in a way the long roads could not.  


"Will you be needin' any--ah-- _special_ accommodations for you or your men tonight m'lord," the inn-keep queries as he replenishes Jon's cup himself.  


"No," he responds firmly, though he feels his cheeks burning.  


His eyes dart to Sansa, wondering if she'd heard the lurid offer, but there is nothing about her that would suggest such a thing as she nibbles delicately at the bread in her hands.  


There's something so achingly childlike about the way she eats, something so poignantly reminiscent of a little girl still three-and-ten, it tugs at the core of him, fills him with the urge to reach for her, to draw her out somehow.  


She turns to him before he can so much as mull over the potential words though, a small smile tugging at the edges of her lips.  


"Is it to your liking--the food?" he asks her in place of the hundred other things he wishes he could.  


It is valid query nonetheless, he consoles himself. After all, this roadside inn cannot boast what Winterfell, the Red Keep, or the Vale certainly could and, whatever Sansa's circumstances may have been, he does not doubt that her accommodations have always been in keeping with her status.  


"Yes, thank you," she nods, her words laced with the mechanic courtesies he remembers her spending an entire childhood perfecting, and it eats at him perhaps a little more than it should.  


He says nothing though, simply returns to his meal and leaves her to her own while the myriad of bustling sounds surrounding them do little to mask the glaring silence. 

 

+

 

The night wears on and, much to his dismay, they do not go unnoticed.  


It isn't long before a young singer is favoring Sansa with his bards of abject longing and praises of ethereal beauty while she blushes prettily, taking care not to seem _too_ delighted by his attentions.  


He has the strangest urge to order the boy to stop, implore that this foolishness--this careful balancing act--is the last thing his sister ( _cousin_ ) needs after all she's been made to suffer. But then he remembers that there is little that he can say he knows of what she has truly been made to suffer--certainly nothing she has confided in him--and it does little to lift his sombre mood.  


It isn't long before she grows weary (perhaps even warier than he has) and asks that he escort her to her room so she may retire for the night.  


She turns to him when they are finally alone, the boisterous sounds from below a faint echo they've left behind.  


"I know you may find this difficult to believe, but I've been wanting to see you again for the longest time--I've missed you," she tells him, her voice cracking faintly (though she does not indulge it).  


"I've missed you too Sansa," he assures her, because he has--he misses them all.  


"I don't deserve that."  


Here she finally does crack, the tears trailing down her cheeks in an unsettlingly even stream, her eyes rimmed red.  


"Sansa..."  


He wants to soothe her, to assure her that he does not begrudge her what she did as a child (that he never really has). She was merely the prisoner of custom and propriety after all--as they all were (and still are).  


His hand does what his words cannot as he brushes aside her tears with the tips of his fingers, the calluses tugging at the smooth surface of her skin. It garners the desires effect, he thinks, for her eyes flutter shut with a soft sigh that stirs something disquieting within him.  


"I hurt father too, before he died," she whispers. "And I never had the chance to take any of it back."  


She opens her eyes then, stares straight into his own as if willing him to condemn her, to chaste her in some way.  


"I was stupid--so, so stupid--"  


"No," he cuts in, and though her confession has unsettled him, there is one thing he knows for certain. "You were young, a child still."  


"I miss them too," she confides, his adamant insistence seemingly having settled the matter of her guilt (or, at the very least, her desire to vocalize it).  


"There is hope yet," he tells her as much as himself. "There is talk of those who have see Rickon beyond the Wall, and Bran. There are even those who swear that Arya Stark dwells in Braavos. There is still a chance we may find them as we have found each other."  


He does not mention the hopelessness of ever finding Robb again, does not think it wise to pick at an open wound--not here and certainly not now.  


"Oh Jon, I can't even tell whether or not you've changed," she whispers sadly, and though it stings him he has little time to dwell when she places her lips atop his own.  


It's chaste kiss, a simple press of their lips, but an intimate one nonetheless and he can't help but think that this is the closest he's been to a woman since Ygritte--can't help but wonder if she's ever been this close to a man (though the very thought is foolish, she's a woman twice married after all).  


He thinks of her lips long after he leaves her for his own room, thinks it unlikely that they haven’t left a visible brand with how they seared over how own.

 

+

 

They grow closer despite the initial awkwardness following that night at the inn (much to his relief).  


He does not miss the way her cheeks flush with color the closer they edge to the North. She delights in the cooler air, does not shy away from the bite of it as she may once have. Even her hair seems taken with it, the ruddy brown dye almost completely faded so that her auburn locks are free to shine.  


 _Kissed by fire_ , he thinks—though he prays that the irony has come to an end where Sansa is concerned.  


He doesn’t miss the way his body responds to her either, not since that night (that kiss), though the Gods old and new know he has tried. The simplest things seem to stir him—the ways her hand often seeks out his own, the way he often catches her gazing at him with a sort of wonder—as if she can’t quite believe he's truly there.  


In those moments he’d be hard put to think of a time where he loathed himself more. A cousin he may be, but he knows that he is the only brother she can claim with any certainty, and to taint that for her, even in his own consciousness, is deplorable.  


Nonetheless, he has learned long before her that guilt often does little to dissuade the flesh (or the heart) from its longings.  


When they make their final stop at yet another modest road-side inn (though one with far less bustle), his knowledge is tested.  


This time, she requests that he join her in her room after he has escorted her, his hand clasped firmly within her own leaving little space for argument.  


“Would you have joined the Night’s Watch--if you had known?” She asks softly.  


He remembers the crippling helplessness that followed the tide of each raven, the violent urge to forsake every one of his vows, to cast any chance of honour—any call of duty—aside, as seamlessly as one would a discarded cloak.  


“No,” he answers, surprising himself perhaps more than he does her.  


“I would not have wanted anything other than what I had,” she confesses, though he does not ask, and her voice still naught but a whisper. “I would not have dreamed past Winterfell.”  


“You couldn’t have known,” he consoles her, though the uselessness of his words does not go unnoticed.  


“I should have.”  


He wants to tell her that it is silly to dwell on such things, that no good can come from it, but she’s kissing him again before he can so much as arrange the words—has his face framed by her hands and it is _far_ less chaste than their first.  


He clutches the fabric of her dress in his own hands, is surprised that the material does not crumble beneath the strength of his grip.  


“Sansa,” he gasps when they’ve parted slightly for want of air, but it does little to deter her for she pushes forward where he would pull back.  


It’s unlike anything he can ever claim to have experienced. There’s a softness to her that cannot be masked even by the forcefulness of her kiss, a joy and hunger her soft moans stir in the pit of his stomach that he knows—even then—is exclusive to her and only her.  


He puts a stop to it when he feels her fingers pulling at the strings of his cloak, though he knows not how he has mustered to strength to do so.  


“Sansa, we musn’t,” he hears himself plead, the words both desperate and hollow.  


“Oh Jon, none of us are where we must be,” she whispers sadly, and he can find no way to contradict her. “Why begrudge ourselves what little happiness we can find?”  


“You’re my sister.”  


“No, I’m your cousin,” she reminds him, and it stings that she would so easily dismiss him as her brother.  


_but has he not just as easily dismissed her as his sister..._   


“Father would not have wanted this,” he presses, thinks that if there is anything that would dissuade her it would be this.  


He is proven wrong however, for she merely traces his features with her fingertips before she’s kissing him again.  


There is no resistance on his part this time, not after his first failed attempt to draw back. He lets her unlace his cloak, follows when she inches their bodies towards the bed, can't take his eyes off her when she slowly unlaces the ties of her gown.  


He simply watches, jaw slightly agape and eyes burning with the desire that consumers every inch of him.  


She is, by far, the most beautiful thing he has ever laid eyes on. Were he man of bards and ballads, there would be no end to his praises--though he knows even then that no words could do the creamy porcelain of her skin or the ample swells of her breasts justice.  


"You're beautiful," he hears himself say, voice hoarse with the breadth of his longing.  


She blushes even brighter, the delicate pink blotches now coloring the skin at her neck, move all the way down to her chest.  


If he hesitates before reaching for her, it's only because he cannot bring himself to lay his scared hands on such seamless flesh.  


She relieves him the burden of making the first move though, takes his burned left hand into her own and places it firmly against the soft swell of her breast, moans softly as her nipple pebbles under the rugged contact.  


It is as if a damn has been demolished, cracked straight through the middle so that the treacherous waters it once confined may crash through. He cannot keep his hands off her, cannot keep his lips from the softness of her own, from the elegant slope of her neck.  


He assists her in ridding him of his tunic, does not start or shy away when he feels her hands tugging at the laces of his breeched where he is painfully hard--every one of her soft sounds of content only spurring him even further.  


"Oh Jon," she moans, running a hand along the length of him through his breeches, and he thinks that simple gesture may have promptly eradicated any vestiges of his self control were he not already so far gone.  


They fall atop the bed in a graceless heap, and he can't help but smile against the skin of her neck when she giggles delightedly.  


He kisses down the column of her throat and the tips of each of her breasts, taking care to swirl her tongue around the hardened nipples, and he's rewarded with a sharp gasp. He moves lower still, to the soft skin of her belly, until he finally reaches that apex of light auburn curls between her thighs.  


He parts her legs gently and, though she complies without resistance, he can feel her propping herself onto her elbows, knows that she is looking down at him in question.  


"Jon--ooh--" she gasps when his mouth opens over her center, the moistness and the salty-sweetness of her garnering a guttural groan he can scarcely stifle.  


He languidly rolls his tongue over that hardened nub he knows will drive her to the peak of her pleasure, feels his cock twitch painfully at the sound of her echoing moans.  


His men will hear them surely, he thinks, but he finds that there is little of him left to care. How can he when her fingers are digging into his scalp this way, when her soft cries of pleasure are growing more and more ragged--more and more desperate.  


"Oh Gods," she groans as he runs his tongue over the length of her swollen folds.  


He circles his fingers around his member when he hears her cries grow louder, knows that she's just as close to release as he is.  


It only takes a few short strokes for him to come undone, for her to follow swiftly with a racking shudder and a choked scream.  


He lays his head against the soft flesh of her belly as his hands run along the length of her thighs, soothing her as her shudders subside and his own drumming heart slows.  


“Father would have wanted me to end up with someone like you,” she tells him after her breathing has evened. “Someone brave and kind and honourable—someone just like him.”  


He does not have the heart to shatter her illusion, to confide in her that he has never felt like less than any of those things than he does now. This he could do for her, bring her pleasure, still her pain (keep the darkness of his conscience and the breadth of his own desire at bay).  


Why begrudge her what little happiness she has found, after all.

 

+


End file.
